Anything, Anywhere, Anyone Else
by ruelynian
Summary: J/S John takes on the responsibility of Sherlock's homecare after a terrible brain injury. Haunted by memories, John makes the most of his time with Sherlock. He works nonstop to make it better for himself, and the man who finds his heart again.
1. Prologue: I Want to Dream Instead

_I want to dream instead._

Prolouge of Anything, Anywhere, Anyone Else

**Fandom****:** Sherlock, bbc. John/Sherlock

**Author****:** ruelynian  
**Warnings****:** part one of a longer fic, regret and dealings with mental health issues  
**Word Count****:** 500  
**Summary****:** Haunted by regrets and past memories, John makes the most of his time with Sherlock, brain damaged from an encounter yet to be detailed. He works nonstop to make it better for himself, and the man he may learn to love.

… _. … . …_

_SSSSssssshhh….._

_SSSSSSSSSSssssssshhhhhhh…_

_The pleasant sounds of water breaking on the shore played a comforting ambience in the background of young John's activities. He was visiting the beach with his cousins and auntie; his favourite thing to do, in the summer of course. He loved it all; the gritty sand getting everywhere it wasn't supposed to be, the beating sunlight on his skin caking with mud, the waves._

_He cast a look over his shoulder at the bay, and a face appears in the water. A huge, oppressive wave springs from the cold calm still, and peers down at John._

_The face is angry, its features contorted._

_He has to do something, he knows it. "John! You need to...you need to..."_

… _. … . …_

The panicked voice of his auntie faded into the dream as John startled to wakefulness. Alert, he immediately turned to check on his ward. Good, good…all safe and snug.

John allowed himself a brief sigh of relief and wiped the clammy dew from his forehead. He hadn't had that dream in a while. A week now, he postulated? It was the thing; he had begun to have this dream since before the accident, and it had become more insistent lately. It was a common recurrent dream from his childhood, when he had still been living with his mother's sister for a time.

He remembered that frighteningly well. It was quite the upset, Harriet his sister had just come out after all, proclaiming to the world her thirteen-year-old sexuality and sending their parents into quite the fit. What a mess that had been. But that dream…

"What a thought, talking waves. Huh." A chuckle was needed to lift the mood he knew was already becoming onset. That heavy, humourless mood; the one that made Mrs. Hudson come twice a day to check on him. John could hear her mother hen voice now: "Oh dear, won't you have a bit to eat with us downstairs?" "Oh hun, take a break, won't you?" Kindly woman…no children. That probably accounted for a lot of her (welcome) behaviour. Without her, likely the flat would have degenerated into a great sty of medical equipment with carbonless notebooks for carpets.

The consistent beeping in the thin air seeped into John's thoughts. Sherlock, trapped up in a great mess of IV tubes and woolly pyjamas. The sight gave great pangs of pain to John.

No point wasting time further, he concluded. Fuelled by the few hours his body had snuck into him, John sat straight at his desk and straightened the pile of papers in front of him.

Patient update reports, required by London Health Services.

Request for resupply of long term care necessities.

Invitation to a luncheon with Sarah.

Another normal day in the new life of doctor Watson.


	2. Harsh Memories

_Harsh Memories._

Chapter 1 of Anything, Anywhere, Anyone Else

**Fandom****:** Sherlock, bbc. John/Sherlock

**Author****:** ruelynian  
**Warnings****:** part one of a longer fic, regret and dealings with mental health issues  
**Word Count****:** 2100  
**Summary****:** Haunted by regrets and past memories, John makes the most of his time with Sherlock, brain damaged from an encounter yet to be detailed. He works nonstop to make it better for himself, and the man he may learn to love.

… _. … . …_

John had left for a pint of milk the next morning, shuffling out of the deranged-looking flat still in his flannels. That's what convenience stores were for anyway. He was sure they saw their fair share of pyjama-clad fellows every day.

"Good morning, doctor!" The cashier was well adjusted to John, and pointed in the direction of the dairy. "Fresh stock, just for you." An innocent smile covered her small face, so blissfully unaware of problems in the world, Watson thought. Since when had he turned into a bitter man, he wondered?

"Thanks, Ira." Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed an unpacked box of sweet buns, those strange caloric demons Sherlock had been oddly fond of. A bolt of pain. He quickly grabbed a carton of skim, and snapped up one of the treats. Why he did, John wasn't sure. He was a reasonable man, and knew enough to realize it would only cause him distracting nostalgia at home, taking him away from his work.

Just in case Sherlock surfaces today, he said to himself.

"Just these two, please."

"Of course, sir."

Back at home, he put the grocery away, and went to do his routine check up on his patient. Quite fine, sleeping soundly. Then the most shocking thing happened.

Sherlock's thin eyelids shivered, not quite REM patterns. They quivered, and slowly, ever so slowly, they opened.

His grey eyes were unfocused and unpained.

"John…"

John's heart was racing uncontrolled, his eyes bugging out. Watson fell to his knees, and took Sherlock's limp hand in both of his. "Sherlock! Sher- Oh!" He was too overcome to speak, the tears could be held back no more. Sherlock turned his face to peer at the top of John's head, and again, his eyes closed, for a very long, long time. John looked up, stricken by his fall back into a coma. He had had so much to say, to apologise for.

The memories sprang unbidden from his mind then, taking him back to that terrible day in Hungary…

… _. … . …_

"Don't! Sherlock, dear god, stop!"

"Don't be dull, John. Even you should piece together that your reaction time wouldn't be snappy enough to change any course of action I choose to make." Sherlock spit the words out like stones, with an uncharacteristically bitter tone. "It's all said and done, now. It's merely an accrued consequence."

"Oh shut up, you egocentric imbecile!" Cold sweat covered Watson's skin, ice wind ripping across them both, just for cruel effect on nature's part. "Jesus, get back here!"

There was a cold glint of humour that flashed through Holmes's eyes before the shot launched the two of them into ringing, buzzing, parasitic silence.

Quiet. Light. His whiplike body crumpling to the ground, Watson's body flying, arm reaching. Trying with all his soul to defy natural laws. His hand touched blistering cold metal and he pushed, deflecting a barrel already shot and no longer in the victim's hand. Watson landed with a jerking 'thud' on the cliffside grass. He gaped in horror at Sherlock's motionless body, blood pouring from his jaw, his temple.

His jaw…temple…

The good doctor sprang to his feet and closed the distance. Postulation: potential chance for survival. Chances fell between 5-15%.

His hands moved of their own accord. He had ripped a shoddy tourniquet from his shirt and made two binds. Cradled Sherlock's head in his lap. No regard for the blood pouring everywhere. In a moment of clarity, he rooted out Sherlock's phone and called the local force (the number to their english contact). The soldier came through, barking orders, giving coordinates. Strangely enough, they seemed to already be on their way. A nicety by Holmes? Potentially. Other matters were more pressing right now, and he snapped the phone shut.

Hugely dilated eyes scanned the lithe body of his best friend, his colleague, his…whatever that had been hours ago. Only a few hours had passed… Dear god, he was to blame, wasn't he.

John Watson, murderer of Sherlock Holmes.

It would never leave him. Regret is a heady poison, not to be staved off. So many 'if onlys'. If only he had been clear in his feelings; he should have known Sherlock jumped at every indication.

Blood sticking to him, trousers itching with it.

If only he hadn't walked out after.

Tick, tick. The force team taking their time.

If only he had responded instead of doing his passive acceptance thing. The passivity that had sent Sherlock into a frenzy of desperate lust. Likely he hadn't even known what had overtaken him, or that simply what he wanted was reciprocation, mutual love, companionship. Acceptance.

Watson had known all of that. He wept over it all, waiting for emergency to get here. He had done all he could, yet he had done nothing at all, causing it all to happen in the end.

If Sherlock died…

The commotion of shouting men approaching caught Watson before the second stupidest act of the day could be carried out with that evil, vile machine, the gun. Mechanical damage, emotional, psychological, spiritual damage. Every soldier was intimate with all the faces of the gun. Never before had Watson had to face them in reference to himself, however.

Strong hands took Sherlock's limp form from Watson. Both of them were stained scarlet, John from his waist down, Sherlock from the solar plexus up. The doctor was helped into a rickety ground vehicle meant for off-road travel, and finally he was granted the troubled peace of unconsciousness.

… _. … . …_

The next few days were a blur. Of course Watson forced himself on the medical team assigned to Sherlock, regardless of any language barriers with the Hungarian med team. Sherlock had hung on, despite his apparent intentions. Watson intermediately wondered if it was his own willpower that kept him alive.

It was quickly made clear that he would be tied to life support for a very long time. Permanent brain damage was inevitable.

That brilliant mind, shattered. Watson grieved for that fact as much as he would have for the death of the man. If only he had… His hand stroked dark, sweaty curls. It was a battle for life every second.

… _. … . …_

Somehow, the rich and influential brother of Sherlock, Mycroft, arranged suitable transport for the pair back to England. It was the most strained flight Watson ever had. Medical facts and projections flew through his mind. Would the decrease in pressure send Sherlock reeling again? Was all that jostling disconnecting any vital areas of life support? They had enough intravenous fluid on hand, right?

Landing in England, Sherlock was taken to the long-term intensive unit of St. Thomas's Hospital. Watson didn't know what to do with himself anymore, not allowed to work as a visiting doctor for ethical reasons, the hospital coordinator had told him. He couldn't see himself spending any length of time away from his friend, consumed by a deep-seated mission to nurse him back to an acceptable level of health. It turned out that his part of their flat's rent could be covered by extended leave pay from the surgery, which he took gratefully as Sarah arranged for the details. It would only hold out for two weeks however. He knew he would have to return to the rhythm of normal life soon.

Walking home one day after a burly nurse had kicked him out after visiting hours ended, Watson had passed by the offices of Lestrade and his team. He made a resolution to pass by the next day and let them know why their calls had gone unanswered for so long.

The empty clatter of keys broke the heavy silence as Watson opened the door to their flat. Climbing the stairs with his limping gait, he found the quiet organization of their place too clean for him. The walls were unmarred, without bullet holes, or spray paint experiment runs. The skull had been put away by Mrs. Hudson while they had been away. Sherlock's room was immaculate, Watson's was ruined.

Passing into this very space, he tossed his scarf on the floor, kicked off his shoes and carefully climbed into the unmade bed.

"_John…"_

The quivering voice of Sherlock from that time haunted him. It had been so right, so wrong… So…

Watson scrunched his face and turned onto his side, hands pinned between his thighs. God, what was he to think of that time? He was so lost. There had been no time for self-reflection until now. No time to realize that his whole self-perception had been taken and thrown into the wind by the willowy hands of Holmes. By his soul-piercing stare and hot, shaky breath.

The sounds of movement could be heard below; their landlady was likely fixing a late meal for the doctor, a habit she had adopted since the terrible news had been leaked. She was just as terrified as John was for Sherlock's continued survival. And as such, she had taken it upon herself to make sure Watson was fed a warm meal every day, and the flat was held in an acceptable level of cleanliness. It seemed that all her chirps of "Not your housekeeper, dear!" were put aside.

Indeed, there came a knock on the open door of the flat; John rarely bothered to close it behind him. "Meatloaf tonight, hun." Sounds of a plate being left on the kitchen table, and of precisely taken steps approaching the bedroom upstairs.

"Oh, dear." Mrs. Huson stood in the doorway, gazing at the man curled on his bed. He wasn't crying, just lying there. John didn't want to look up. He felt ridiculous, like a grade-schooler.

"Hullo, Mrs. Hudson. Husband doing well today?" He forced himself to sit upright, and run his fingers through wiry hair in an attempt to calm them. "Is his cold settled down yet?"

"Oh, don't worry about that old bloke," she smiled sweetly. "He's getting on just fine. And you? How was Mr. Holmes today?"

A deep sigh was required before that answer. "As well as can be expected, of course. It's just… his mind…"

"Stop there, dear. It's alright." The woman came to give Watson a pat on the shoulder. "No one blames you, John. Keep your chin up." With a little nod and a final smile, she left him alone to his own devices.

Well, no one blamed him because no one knew about the true cause of Sherlock's destructive actions. No one but the two of them. Lord, why did things have to have turned out like this? It was a plea from a desperate heart.

Watson came to a conclusion. He needed Sherlock here, with him. He needed to take care of him, to change his dressings with his hands. To be the first (and only one) to see him open his eyes. He was sure the comatose state would lift, eventually.

But how could he accomplish this? Home care…it was done. The surgery…

An idea as brilliant as the flaming sun erupted through his mind. Research! A theoretical way to reverse nervous damage!

It was an idea that had occurred to him in the second year of his undergraduate. Why couldn't brain matter regenerate itself? Why couldn't the mind heal itself in a similar manner as the rest of the body did when it was damaged? The stage of the cell cycle permanently stalled, not being allowed to continue, to grow, and to multiply and to replace dead cells.

"YES! Yes!"

Watson sprang up, his fists raised in the air. He was sure he could do this! He knew it.

A research project on organic self-regeneration, in particular to grey matter. Homecare for a patient in the intensive unit. Of course, there would be a lot of wrestling on the protocol end. Nevermind all that, Sarah would help him. A grant for research…easily enough obtained from the government of England. The equipment that would be necessary for this dual job would itself take over the smallish flat. John could move into Sherlock's room, which would be set up as the ward. The door connecting to the living room where he could make his office.

It could be done.

With a bit of luck and a whole shitload of divine aid, maybe John could take on the largest standstill in healthcare in the civilized world. Maybe he could fix his friend, his Sherlock. Yes, this risk was light years beyond any inconvenience or difficulties it would entail.

The next day, he forgot about Lestrade, and went straight to the offices of the Medical Research Council.

… _. … . …_


	3. Oh, All Your Words

_Oh, All Your Words_

Chapter 2 of Anything, Anywhere, Anyone Else

**Fandom****:** Sherlock, bbc. John/Sherlock

**Author****:** ruelynian  
**Warnings****:** part one of a longer fic, regret and dealings with mental health issues  
**Word Count****:** 2700  
**Summary****:** Haunted by regrets and past memories, John makes the most of his time with Sherlock, brain damaged from an encounter yet to be detailed. He works nonstop to make it better for himself, and the man he may learn to love.

… . … . …

In the first days of his initiating the research project, John was brought into contact with contemporaries, something of a national team (association, really) of neuroscience researchers and medical engineers. Taking a meeting with Mycroft prior certainly sped the process up significantly, John speculated. In fact, after a serious conversation that had gone quite in depth into details and procedure (John was quite happy to be one-up in some intellectual area to at least one Holmes brother), Mycroft had signed the papers necessary to allow experimental treatments and therapy to be used on his brother (given significant testing and council approval, of course).

John was just through the roof. Really, he hadn't expected half of this to come through, but for his hair-brained plan to be working was just fabulous.

It had put him in a significantly better mood, as well. John was practically humming as he set up the IV stand and organized the various medical supplies. He briefly thought of cleaning out Sherlock's room and putting in more hospital-like decor for a sanitary look, but this was promptly dismissed by Mrs. Hudson.

She had dropped the hint not so subtly that night before Sherlock would be coming home. "Don't you touch one panel of wallpaper here!" Apparently, she was making a 'welcome home' cake, despite John's protests. He wasn't much for sweet treats, but he suspected Mrs. Hudson was otherwise a very good influence on him. He told her as much, grateful for all her assistance and care-taking of both the flat and of him for the past weeks.

"Oh really, dear, it was the least I could do, what with this dreadful situation."

The next day as Sherlock was being transferred home, Watson felt truly and properly happy - more so than he had been in a good long while. He had placed the skull on Sherlock's nightstand for the occasion, even. Gruesome thing.

As the transport team left, and he was alone with his patient, John took the liberty of sitting on the bed next to Sherlock's side. IV tubes from his right arm, eyes closed and unmoving. Shallow breathing. The doctor took in all these facts. The curly dark hair, translucent, satin skin, whipcord muscles in his long neck: that was what John took in.

He gently stroked Sherlock's distinct cheekbones, tracing his fingers down his jawline.

"Oh Sherlock, look where we are." Somehow, the melancholy air had snuck back in to Watson's voice. "You stupid, stupid man."

… . … . …

Weeks later, after Sherlock's first surfacing from comatose, John had thrown himself into his work with renewed vigour. So much to do, to catch up on. He was pleased to learn there had been significant advancements specifically in the area of neural regeneration. Apparently, they had located regions of the mature brain that did indeed grow fresh cells, a shock to the whole medical community at the time. If only he could direct the migration of those new cells to fill a damaged area, and promote increased production without invasive measures...

John was quite lost in his scholarly jargon that he hadn't noticed another figure standing in the room.

"Good day, Doctor Watson."

He started at the smooth female voice, spinning in his chair. A woman, probably late twenties with bobbed blond hair stood waiting, meticulously put together in a dress suit. "Uh, can I help you...?" He wasn't quite sure what to say. How had she gotten in again?

"I take it you didn't receive Anthea's text warning you of my arrival?" John immediately checked his phone, being that it was hidden in the drawer next to him, and sure enough, there was a text from Mycroft's beautiful assistant.

"Ah. Then you'd be...Miss L.?"

"Indeed." She had kept her shoes and jacket on. Not staying long, then. "I'm here checking in on the patient, seeing if you need anything in the way of supplies, or support." Miss L had begun wandering around in the flat, picking up random objects in clear disinterest.

Something was distinctly off about his visit. John supposed a man was powerful as Mycroft would have more than one assistant, but yet he couldn't shake the sense of heightened awareness.

"Uh, let me show you around, then. Tea?"

"No need, continue on, write a list of what you need." She had already slipped into Sherlock's room.

That was when all of Watson's alarms went off. "Hey there! Now just hold on." He got to the entrance in three broad steps, slamming the door open. The woman turned around innocently, just standing at the head of the bed.

"My, jumpy are we?" Disregarding John, she turned to touch the side of Sherlock's face. John bristled.

"I think it's time for you to leave."

"No need to be so upset." She replied in a maddeningly calm tone. "I take it you're all stocked up then, for now." She threw a conspiratorial look at John. "I can see myself out, thanks."

And just as she had come, she was gone from the flat. John waited until the clicking of her heels on the staircase was followed by the heavy thud of the front door before scrambling for his phone, speed dialling Mycroft and turning to the window to make sure of her clear departure. His chest was tight, he noted. Breathing laboured. Out of new habit, he glanced over his shoulder; nope, Sherlock was just as oblivious as ever. Relief.

Once he got the man on the phone, John repeated the scenario to which he got the reply of silence, then "I do only have one assistant, John. I don't have any acquaintance that matches your description." A pause. "I'm coming over, expect me shortly." And with that, he was gone too.

"Bloody hell," John muttered. What was going on here?

… . … . …

Within the snappy time frame of a quarter hour, Mycroft was sitting on the sofa, coffee in hand. "Tell me again, John, are you positively sure it was Anthea's number you saw on your phone?"

"Well I'm quite sure, my number's blocked to non-contacts, courtesy of your brother." John fumbled with his phone, twirling it in his fingers, as if wondering if he could place the blame of this situation on the tiny device.

"I'm quite worried, John." He didn't sound worried, he thought. "So I'd like to ask if you would...consider moving your office and Sherlock, of course, to a more secure location."

John mulled this idea over in his head. "That's big of you, Mycroft, but I think I'd rather not, not for now." He continued, choosing not to acknowledge the scowl forming on his visitor's face. "Please don't misunderstand my reasons. Maybe if we just upped security a bit here?"

Mycroft looked like he'd rather throw the both of them into a bolted cell and have it over with. "Yes, of course..."

They managed to negotiate it to preforming a clean sweep each week and a camera in the hall. Mrs. Hudson likely wouldn't like the look of that, but she could come to terms on her own. Clearly there would be other measures too, Mycroft hadn't bothered with those. They would happen whether the doctor wanted them to or not.

Taking his hat and jacket in hand, Mycroft nodded his head before departing. "I do hope you're aware of what you've put yourself again, Watson."

John replied with a grunt, already looking forward to getting on with his work, free from suspicious trespassers and picky brothers. Pushing back in his chair, alone again, he thought about the day's events. If it wasn't Mycroft, then who had sent that woman? With Sherlock involved, there were never any free agents... In fact, this would be much more efficient if the man were conscious, Watson decided.

Without thinking about it, John picked up Mycroft's abandoned mug, and walked it to the kitchen. Ironically, the table had been cleared of post-death rate experiments, and replaced with stacks of research papers, science journals, and a backlog of the unfortunate paperwork. The mug was cleaned subconsciously in the sink by a distracted Watson; he gazed out the window instead of at the ceramic in his hands. Towelling himself off, he resigned himself to the rest of the afternoon.

Now was as good a time as any to do the brain activity sweep, John thought. And anyway, he wanted to try out this nifty new handheld model the hospital had lent him.

Thus, he moved into Sherlock's room, and unpacked the box from St. Thomas's. Once he was finished the start-up runs and calibrations, John was ready to visually delve into the magnificent brains of Sherlock Holmes. The murmuring of the wishbone shaped device was low and almost pleasant to hear. A ribbon of blue light passed over Sherlock's head, an indication to help control rate of movement, John guessed. On an accompanying monitor perched on the dresser, an image slowly appeared, a life sized portrait of the mind.

Clicking the handheld off, John turned to look at the readings.

"How extraordinary…" The remark slipped out, and John realized he had begun talking to himself. Well, he shouldn't be surprised at the reading. Comatose patients showed more mental activity than their vegetative state let on. And this was Sherlock, after all.

He peered a little closer, noting the red areas with interest, black with total disregard. Olfactory centers high, visual regions low. To be expected. Making a few notes, he turned to leave the room, pausing to gaze on his friend's lean face.

Sherlock had said his name when he had woken two days ago.

"_John…"_

He shivered at the memory. Sherlock had sounded lost. Not alarmed, just…alone.

John left the room quickly before he was too overcome to continue his report.

That night, John had difficulty falling asleep. He had previously set up a comfortable-enough cot bed in Sherlock's room, just in case his ward should wake in the nights.

Of course the doctor knew it might be never.

His heart clenched as he traced circles on the ceiling with his eyes alone.

And if he did wake, who knew how long it would be until full recovery, if there would ever be one? Hope, hope, hope…

He fell asleep, mind moving back to that last time in London with a functional Sherlock, seven weeks ago.

… . … . …

It had been a tough day already down at the surgery and really, at times like these, John just wasn't sure why he let Sherlock lead him all around London. After ten. His preferred pre-bed teatime.

Unsurprisingly, another young gent had snapped, and now there were bodies. And clearly, where there were bodies of the unidentified kind, there was Sherlock. Watson scrunched his nose in annoyance.

"Oh, don't give me that, John. You know as well as I do you revel in this." Sherlock hadn't even taken his eyes from the dead man's wrist, apparently it was of interest.

"Humph. How can you even-"

"Simple. This floor is wood and even if it didn't creak, I can feel you shifting your posture every eight seconds or so. You used the facilities twenty-five minutes ago, thus," he ignored another huff by his sidekick, "It must be impatience." He looked right up at John. "Besides, even a dullard could see the thick fog of your disapproval." Sherlock returned to the corpse with his latex-gloved hands, dropped the poor man's left arm from quite the distance, rolled his head around a little, and then finally stood up. "Right, best we get off, then."

John choked on a dribblet of saliva. Sherlock gave him a deadpan look.

"Lestrade!" He waited for the detective inspector, who had been going through some facts, or another activity that was a clear waste of his time and limited mental capacities, in the opinion of Holmes.

The summoned appeared posthaste dressed again in one of those hideous blue bag-suits. "Yes, Sherlock? Got something then, do you?"

"Yes," he drawled, "A clear-cut one here, detective. Drugs got too expensive for this dealer. And yes, before you rudely interrupt me, he does indeed to be clean himself. Always wore the gloves, didn't skim a lot for himself, hum… But just look at this delicious pocket scale. Now tell me, who needs to make very precise measurements at any place or hour…?" The consulting detective surveyed the blank faces. "Well," his tone was a tad disappointed, "A drug dealer, clearly… Right well if you want some more proof then I suppose you should just look inside the sewn hem of his pants," he pointed out the neat, but hand-sewn bottoms.

Lestrade got right on it, and Sherlock was about to launch into a self-congratulatory explanation, when he was cut short by something on the wall opposite him.

"Right, I'll leave that little brain-teaser for you, as practice. You know, that professional ongoing training thing." He was already pawing the wall, touching it from all angles, knocking, kicking, sniffing.

"Sherlock?" The query was clear in John's voice. He was completely ignored.

"Ahh…" Excitement was veritably bubbling in his eyes, as if they saw into another dimension altogether, one far above the mediocre reality that held the rest. Hands wrapped in leather gloves, ineffective. Pulled them off, scratching at the wall. He bites his lip, scraping the wallpaper. Digging, searching…

There it comes. A strip tears off. A little piece, followed by a whole swath of the navy stuff. There it goes, and there… "There it is…" he breathes.

"Sherlock, for goodness sake, what are you…what is that?" The doctor stops in his sentence, too bewildered at what had been revealed under the coverings.

[ hétfő reggel, tudod. M. ]

"What language is that, even?" Lestrade strode up, apparently trying to assert some authority.

Sherlock's eyes were transfixed. "Hungarian." He turned to look at John, for a slightest moment, then resumed addressing the D.I. "Scratch what I said earlier, I don't think we'll be catching this one tonight. Not the real culprit. Come along, John." And with a beckoning hand signal, Sherlock whisked himself out of the stuffy room, down the spiral steps, and was off.

"Uh, quite right, then." John nodded an apologetic goodbye, and was off chasing his detective once again.

Donovan strode into the room, taking shorthand on a notepad. "Yes, drugs bust. Suspicious international leads. Sir?" She glanced to Lestrade. "Why do you let him get away with so much? It's pushing the terse line of truly ridiculous, now. That back there, that's practically an infringement to the law, obviously withholding valuable information."

"Yeah, you manage to get a real charge laid on him, I guarantee your swift promotion." With a deflated air of acceptance, Lestrade tucked his pencil behind an ear, and began directing the human traffic in the building once more.

… . … . …

That night home with Sherlock back at 221b was clearly recorded in John's mind. He had been in a terrible upset for several hours after leaving the crime scene, doing not much else other than pacing back and forth across the living room, occasionally stepping over the abused coffee table to get a good spot on the couch, contemplating his nicotine backups, reconsidering, and starting this cycle again.

It had begun to wear on John's nerves. He had tried tea, telly, and blogging. There was really nothing to do with such an unruly flatmate, though. "Sherlock, really. Just, why don't you talk about it? You know, maybe throw a few questions at me, we could chip on this thing together?" Translate: if it makes you think more efficiently, I will let you make me look, and feel, like a seven year-old.

"Humm, humm humm. Nope, just won't do."

"Well, then please excuse me. I'll be retreating to the upstairs. Mrs. Hudson will eventually tire of you boring a hole into our floor and her ceiling, you know." No acknowledgement. "Night then."

With that, John was gone, turned away to the transfixed and still, very still, gaze Sherlock pinned to his diminishing back.

… . … . …

A.N.: Thank you a thousand fold to PB Headless, you are quite right! /burns in the eternal shame of spelling mistakes


	4. Sick Mind

_Sick Mind_

Chapter 3 of Anything, Anywhere, Anyone Else

**Fandom****:** Sherlock, bbc. John/Sherlock

**Author****:** ruelynian  
**Warnings****:** part one of a longer fic, regret and dealings with mental health issues  
**Word Count****:**2900  
**Summary****:** Haunted by regrets and past memories, John makes the most of his time with Sherlock, brain damaged from an encounter yet to be detailed. He works nonstop to make it better for himself, and the man he may learn to love.

A.N.: not to be pretentious, I'll just get this out of the way. When I say 'foil' I refer to the literary meaning, not aluminum or something. Right then, read on.

… . … . …

"John! John, for god's sake, leave the biscuits!"

"Some of us do require sustenance, Sherlock. Don't get jealous now." With a face stuffed of morning cookies, John offered the plate to the enraged detective. Just to annoy him.

As it did. "Oh, for goodness…ok. Right." Sherlock took a breath, apparently trying a relaxation technique, to the doctor's glee (John had been watching this little program on the TV for the past week, quite educational) . "Look, this just doesn't fit, not at all. None of it." He spun from his paces to stare at his foil. "John, listen to me. That thing last night-"

"Um hum…" Drinking tea.

"It was a message, left for me. From a very, very dangerous man."

"Oh was it? Thought it was a love poem from the decorators." Snide.

"Well it wasn't'." Was Sherlock for real? "The thing is, John, is that I've known him for…some time. We'd fallen out of communication quite a while ago, though, and really, I thought he'd gotten himself killed, or caught by now." He snorted, and leaned on the table, right in John's face.

"I am sitting here, Sherlock," John pushed the intruding person out of his morning dish.

"He's being _obvious_, John. And he is never, ever, obvious. It concerns me."

"Humm. I'll give you some options here. One, you can tell me what the hell is going on that's got your knickers in such a bunch, or two, you can kindly go have a _t_ê_te-a-t_ê_te_with Lestrade. Sure he'd love to help you out. Maybe Mycroft?"

"Try as you might to heal our shattered brotherly bonds, John, it is not going to happen. _God,_ this isn't even a mentalist problem, no! Why don't you make it a little more interesting, Jim!" Sherlock was shouting now, directing his anger at the ceiling.

"Jim?"

John's ears were far too sharp, and Sherlock's tongue too loose. Would have to see to that. "I'm going out, as you clearly are not." With such, the man had stormed out, coat and scarf seemingly flying after him.

… . … . …

"So, how's your proposition going there, Dr. Watson?"

"It's getting along, where's Bill? He's in yet?"

"Yes, in his office. Good day then!"

"Hunn," John grunted in reply as he went in search for his collaborating partner-in-research. Down the clean hall and turning at a slick modern door with glass accents, John let himself in. Spotting his friend at the corner table, he wasted no time and sat himself down.

"Hey there, John! So, what's the intended plan, then?" Most everyone in the office labs knew that when Watson bothered to come in, he didn't like to dillydally.

A memory drive was placed on the table, and John indicated to the computer. "Well, it's all in there. Did the book work and got it together last night." Bill took the key and placed in the appropriate slot. The monitor was taken over by an auto-run program rather like a slideshow, with links to in-depth documents.

"Last night?"

"Yup. Right here," John pulled his chair up, "I thought maybe we could try a virus vector method, you know. It's invasive, yes, but a natural single-use dose," he motioned to a simple flash graphic, "In a highly controlled amount that stimulates the conversion of the heterochromatin to euchromatin. We can unlock the segment for growth and reproduction in only the neurons that receive it, they begin to multiply-"

"Exponentially."

"Yes, well yes, the timing is pat down, follow this by another dose of a sort of anti-virus, convert it all back to the way it was, and poof!" He sat back in his chair. "You've grown back a certain segment of the brain, no information stored, of course, and you're back in business. Look, in this simulation, the regions that had taken over for the damaged area are back to normal levels. No compensation, nothing. Then I suppose you'd just administer a therapy program, and try to re-link all the lost connections."

"Right, well how about in this case," Bill leaned over a notepad, and began jotting. Their medical debate went on for some hours, perforated by coffee breaks, and a document was made up.

The sun had set in the large window, and stomachs were rumbling.

"So John, feeling peckish? I know I could go for a nice endless-bottom pasta dish. Nice place down the street from here."

The doctor knew it meant nothing, was aware colleagues ate together after a long day. "No, I'm actually fine, oddly enough. Thanks again for running through this with me, Bill. See you Friday, then."

"Alright, goodbye Watson. Have a good night."

Back at home, John threw together a quick dish. Pasta. It hadn't been a bad suggestion. He went to go check on Sherlock, plate and cutlery in hand. Setting the assemblage aside on a reading table, he ran over the monitoring equipment's automatic charts, took his patient's temperature and breathing rate. It all seemed normal enough. Thus, he went back to the sitting chair with his meal, flung his slippered feet onto the ottoman and sank into a comforting dish of pesto and linguine, soft beeping in the background playing music for them.

… . … . …

It was the night after Sherlock had run out in the morning that they found themselves eating at Angelo's. It had been another terse day and rather a long one at the office, John thought. This was a nice little outing, and had been surprised when Sherlock had suggested it. Though they hadn't spoken much since his outburst, the air was calm. John was enjoying the little candle on the table, saw it like an inside joke between them all, Angelo and the pair. What a cute little flame…

"Moriarty."

"Huh?"

"You asked for a name, John, and there it is."

"You gave me a name before."

"Unwillingly. Listen," he turned to his dinner-date and waited for his full attention. "I'm leaving the country for a few days."

"Humph. Always get the odd revelations from you, sitting here at this dinner table. I suppose you're going after him, then? Hungary, was it?" He took a shovel of delicious rosé smothered noodles into his mouth, apparently unconcerned with Sherlock's announced plans.

In something of a shock with the lack of incited reaction, Sherlock remained expressionless and seemed to be waiting a further reply. When none came, he uncomfortably filled the silence. "Yes, John. I am going to finish what I should have over eight years ago." He regarded the doctor for a moment. "I hope we shall meet again. My plane is in the morning, and I think I would rather stay awake tonight."

John looked up from under his eyebrows, mouth still positioned for maximized shovelling. "Melodrama suits you surprisingly well, Sherlock, but do you really think you're going alone? Not if I have bloody well anything to say about it. Say what you want about my meagre abilities of deduction, but you didn't bother to change the page when you bought that ticket on the British Airways site, _on my laptop._ Your mind working alright, Sherlock?"

"I-"

"Don't bother. I got myself a ticket and you should know I'm not a man to waste money. So! You've got accommodations lined up then?"

"_As I was going to say_, there is no possibility of you coming with me. I am sorry."

A stare. The pasta was either clearly forgotten, or John's stomach had become inexplicably full. "Two guns are better than one, Sherlock, and obviously you're not at your best right now."

"John!" The shouting came at once, ruptured from Sherlock's calm demeanour quite suddenly. "You cannot come, _you _are the reason my mind is so clouded! So why don't you just call up Sarah, then, and she can have the rest of my plate, as I will be leaving." He was already up and half-dressed before John could catch up to what he had said, and grab his arm. His grip was shaken off, and Sherlock stormed out of the little italian.

"Everything alright, mate?" Angelo's deep baritone was a welcome balancer. "I know he can be fussy and that, but his heart's in the right place."

"What does Sarah have to do with anything?" John was dumbfounded.

Angelo just slapped him forcefully on the back, and told him to eat up. Too many meals gone to waste from such sudden leavings.

… . … . …

Thinking back to that time now, John supposed he understood the backdrop to the outburst. And yes, he could now admit, maybe there was a thin thread of connection between Sherlock's anger and the suggestion of Sarah.

Thoughts for another time, however, as currently Doctor Watson was trying very carefully to replace the IV tubing in Sherlock's arm, and as a delicate procedure, it was not to be undertaken with the air of distraction.

The moist sensation of plastic sliding against wet flesh was properly ignored by John; it was simply a facet of his life as a medical man. The fresh tubing was prepared in advance, and reconnected to a new needle. He slipped it inside the vein, flicked the downwards connection and lastly verified the character of the stand. All good there.

It had been a little over a week since John had gone in to see Bill about that first plan launch, and he had surprisingly positive feedback (unusual from the council). Admittedly, he was a little excited about it. He returned to the brain-activity device, and as the last part of the daily routine, he made a fresh scan, selecting the automatic print option.

Grabbing the still-hot glossy paper from the feed, John took it with him into the kitchen, intent on making a nice cup of tea.

John nearly dropped the water-heavy kettle when he bothered to look at the results.

Four major regions of the bullet-path and surrounding swollen areas had shown a spike in activity, from just the day before, as if nothing had ever happened in those places.

He blinked. This was clearly impossible…

John rushed back and made a secondary scan, and yes, the same result was pushed out of the printer. It appeared that Sherlock…was healing himself? There had to be a decent explanation to all this, John reasoned with himself. Brain-injury patients didn't just start doing things like this, two months into their coma.

Yet the activity graph implied something quite different. And he had surfaced once before.

There was some movement from the bed. Hope riding high in John's chest, he turned around slowly, as Sherlock opened his eyes to tiny slivers of awareness. Lying on the bed, he took a sudden inhalation of breath, and twitched his hand as if to grab his chest.

"You're awake!"

"Good deduction, yes." There was pain in his voice, spoken with a strained softness.

"Sherlock, how do you feel?"

"Like shit." He groaned, and tried to sit up, and was promptly secured by his doctor.

"No, I think you'll be staying down for now." John could barely comprehend what was happening here. There was always a period of a few minutes at least before recently awakening patients got all their sense back online, and recognized where they were. Had Sherlock been awake long? "Listen to me, we'll take things slowly from here, alright?"

Sherlock stopped moving for a second, and his eyes snapped open in alarm. "John! I can't be alive! Do you know what this means? It means it was all for waste, John!" Sherlock howled with discontent, his face contorted in unbridled anger. "And you! Why _the fuck_ did you leave like that, hum?" John was shocked into silence, and Sherlock gritted his teeth in self-loathing. "Uhnnn, why is it always like this? Dear god, do I not get anything I want, ever? No, I guess that was an irrelevant question. Jim. Oh this, this is not good at all. John!"

Hesitantly, "Yes?"

"I have to go after him. I need to leave, now." And suddenly, it was an impromptu wrestling match between John's toned soldier body and Sherlock's pumped with the adrenaline of having his rational thought centers impaired.

"For Christ's sake! Sherlock, you are not going _anywhere_ in your pyjamas and with an IV tube stuck up your arm."

"Oh, that. Thanks for reminding me." To John's horror, Sherlock ripped it out without thinking twice. "Now please, you do not comprehend the gravity of this situation. You must let me go, now! He may be here at any moment!"

"Sherlock!" Lying across him, and being forced to use his entire body's weight to pin the man down, suffice to say bellowing into his ear got some deserved attention. "You've been in a coma for eight and a half weeks, and we're back in London. We're in the flat, Sherlock. I've got you in homecare."

"Eight weeks. _Eight weeks_? But why hasn't he…oh. The rude bastard. Thought I was as good as dead then, did he? I'll show him my mental capacities are just as polished as the day we met!"

The struggle to keep Sherlock on the bed was renewed, and failed, on John's part, as he wriggled out from under the oppressive weight, only to have his face connected with the carpeted floor. "Bloody hell, won't you stay still for a moment?" John jumped off the bed, and propped Sherlock up against the mattress, sitting with between his sprawled legs and supporting him with two hands against his shoulders. "Sherlock, I think there's still a bit of, uh, damage to be dealt with here. Even you must realize literally springing up from the bed after eight weeks in a comatose state is not a good plan? I had really hoped that we could do this in a more receptive environment, but well, Sherlock, the areas that have been affected are the centers of rational thought, planning and consequences, anticipation-"

"Bloody well everything I need then? Well as you can see, doctor, I am perfectly fit. Now please, excuse me." He pushed John off and stood up with considerably improved balance from the last attempt.

Following suit, John leapt to his feet. "Even a fool could see the irrationality of your behaviour right now, Holmes! Help me out here, and don't get yourself thrown into a relapse because you've gone bloody well bonkers!"

"Help you, no," Sherlock drawled, considering John's statement. "Help myself, that's a different story." Without warning or hesitation, Sherlock took a fistful of John's lab coat from the back, and crushed him against his entire body. John was too afraid to move, and Sherlock whispered into his ear, "You left me there, John. What was I supposed to think? Don't get yourself worked up over it though, I would have shot myself either way." He pulled back just long enough to deliver a scathing look of betrayal, before he roughly stole John's lips in the most violent kiss the doctor had ever before experienced. The force of it sent his mind reeling, not sure what had happened in the last five minutes. Some part of him didn't want to worry about it. In fact, it seemed John's body had begun to speak all on its own, his belly growing hot as Sherlock forced his tongue against his teeth, into his mouth; his hands moving like a Swedish masseuse along his backside.

"Uhn, Sher-" John's words were interrupted by a gasp when Sherlock moved one hand up to pull his head to one side and began licking and nipping his neck. "Stop, stop it, Sherlock. _Stop it!_" Taking much more strength of will than John thought should have been required, he managed to push Sherlock off himself, and stumble backwards onto the bed. "Bloody hell, Sherlock. You just woke up!"

"That I did. Sorry, forgot last time that you regretted it. Didn't seem that way at the time." He spit out the words, and strode over to the dresser, pulling out new clothes.

"You sprang it on me! Out of nowhere, Sherlock! Hardly call that very fair."

"Simply a lack of deduction on your part, John. If you had bothered paying attention, you would have noticed my…feelings towards you some time ago." It seemed to be an uncomfortable confession. "Again, my apologies, and I shall be going out."

"You. Will. Not. Be. As much as you don't want to admit it, Sherlock, there is obviously something lacking in your thought process right now. For god's sake, I hardly recognize you!"

"If I'm so outside of my own control, then leave me the living room. I suggest wearing toques and several layers of knit if you don't want to attract my attentions. Maybe there is a small grain of truth in your words." The admittance of that was made so low, John had to strain to hear it. "Please, John. Just give me space right now."

Sherlock wandered off, having gone from wildness to a daze in a heartbeat.


End file.
